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perfect obedience to the will-unconscious obedience-so that the slightest inclination or desire of the soul, if made an act of the will, found expression in the body. When the soul is not at ease in the body, but is conscious of it as something separate, gracefulness departs and awkwardness takes its place. The awkward person does not know what to do with his hands and arms; he can not think just how he would carry his body or fix the muscles of his face. He chews a stick or bites a cigar in order to have something to do with the facial muscles, or twirls a cane or twists his watch chain, folds his arms before or behind, or even thrusts his hands into his pockets, in order to have some use for them which will restore his feeling of ease in his body. The soul is at ease in the body only when it is using it as a means of expression or action.

Harmony is this agreement of the inner and outer, of the will and the body, of the idea and its expression, so that the external leads us directly to the internal of which it is the expression. Gracefulness then results, and gracefulness is the characteristic of classic or Greek art. Not only its statues, but its architecture and architectural ornament, exhibit gracefulness or freedom.

The Greek religion made beauty the essential feature of the idea of the divine, and hence his art is created as an act of worship of the beautiful. It represents the supreme attainment of the world in pure beauty, because it is pure beauty and nothing beyond. Christianity reaches beyond beauty to holiness. Other heathen religions fall short of the Greek ideal, and lack an essential element which the Greek religion possessed. The Greeks believed that the divine is at the same time human; and human not in the sense that the essence of man, his purified intellect and will, is divine, but human in the corporeal sense as well. The gods of Olympus possess appetites and passions like men; they have bodies and live in a special place. They form a society or large patriarchal family. The manifestation of the divine is celestial beauty. Moreover, the human being may by becoming beautiful become divine. Hence the Greek religion centers about gymnastic games. These are the Olympian, the Isthmean, the Nemean, and the Pythian games. Exercises that shall give the soul sovereignty over the body and develop it into beauty are religious in this sense. Every village has its games for physical development; these are attended by the people who become in time judges of perfection in human form, just as a community that attends frequent horse races produces men that know critically the good points of a horse. It is known who is the best man at wrestling, boxing, throwing the discus, the spear, or javelin; at running, at leaping, or at the chariot or horseback races. Then, at less frequent intervals, there is the contest at games between neighboring villages. The successful hero carries off the crown of wild olive branches. Nearly every year there is a great national assembly of Greeks and a contest open to all. The Olympian festival at Olympia and the Isthmean festival near Corinth are held the same summer; then at Argolis, in the winter of the second year afterwards, is the Nemean festival; then the Pythian festival near Delphi, and a second Isthmean festival, occur in the spring of the third year; and again there is a second Nemean festival in the summer of the fourth year of the Olympiad. The entire people, composed of independent States, united by ties of religion, assemble to celebrate this faith in the beautiful and honor their successful youth. The results carried the national taste for the beautiful as seen in the human body to the highest degree.

The next step after the development of the personal work of art in the shape of beautiful youth, by means of the national games and the cultivation of the taste of the entire people through the spectacle of these games, is the art of sculpture, by which these forms of beauty, realized in the athletes and existing in the minds of the people as ideals of correct taste, shall be fixed in stone and set up in the temples for worship. Thus Greek art was born. The statues at first were of gods and demigods exclusively. Those which have come down to us cause our unbounded astonishment at this perfection of form. It is not their resemblance to living bodies, not their anatomical exactness that interests us, not their so-called "truth to nature," but their gracefulness and serenity-their "classic ED 1904 M- -72

repose." Whether the statues represent gods and heroes in action or in sitting and reclining postures, there is this "repose" which means indwelling vital activity and not mere rest as opposed to movement. In the greatest activity there is considerate purpose and perfect self-control manifested. The repose is of the soul, and not a physical repose. Even sitting and reclining figures-for example, the Theseus from the Parthenon, the torso of the Belvedere-are filled with activity, so that the repose is one of voluntary self-restraint and not the repose of the absence of vital energy. They are gracefulness itself.

What a surprising thought is this, of a religion founded on beauty! How could it have arisen in the history of the world, and what became of it? Let us consider a few of the elements wherein the Greek religion was superior to other heathen religions.

The Hindoo worshiped an abstract unity devoid of all form, which he called Brahma. His idea of the divine is defined as the negation not only of everything in nature, but also everything human. Nothing that has form, or shape, or properties, or qualities-nothing, in short, that can be distinguished from anything else, can be divine according to the thought of the Hindoo. This is pantheism. It worships a negative might which destroys everything. If it admits that the world of finite things arises from Brahma as creator, it hastens to tell us that the creation is only a dream and that all creatures will vanish when the dream fades. There can be no hope for any individuality, according to this belief. Any art that grows up under such a religion will manifest only the nothingness of individuality and the impossibility of its salvation. Instead of beauty as the attribute of divinity, the Hindoo studied to mortify the flesh; to shrivel up the body; to paralyze rather than develop his muscles. Instead of gymnastic festivals he resorted to the severest perances, such as holding his arm over his head until it wasted away. If he could produce numbness in his body so that all feeling disappeared, he attained holiness. His divine was not divine-human, but inhuman rather.

The Egyptian laid all stress on death. In his art he celebrated death as the vestibule to the next world and the life with Osiris. Art does not get beyond the symbolic phase with him. As in the hieroglyphic the picture of a thing is employed at first to represent the thing, and by and by it becomes a conversational sign for a word, so the works of art at first represent men and gods, and afterwards become conventional symbols to signify the ideas of the Egyptian religion. The great question to be determined is this: What destiny does it promise the individual, and what kind of life does it command him to lead? The Egyptian symbolizes his divine by the processes of nature that represent birth, growth and death, and resurrection, and hence conceive life as belonging to it. The course of the sun— its rising and setting, its noonday splendor, and its nightly eclipse; the succession of the seasons-the germination, growth, and death of plants; the flooding and subsidence of the Nile-these and other phenomena are taken as symbols expressing the Egyptian conception of the divine living being. Finally it rises out of the immediate artistic description by symbols, and tells the myth of Osiris killed by his brother Typhon, and of his descent to the silent realm of the under-world, and of his there reigning king, and of his resurrection. The Indian art, on the contrary, dealt with symbols that were not analogous to human life. They reverenced mountains and rivers and the storm winds and great natural forces that were destructive to the individuality of man, but also reverenced life in animals. They founded asylums for aged cows, but not for decrepit humanity.

Persian art adored light as the divine; it also adored the bodies that give light-the sun, moon, and stars; also fire; also whatever is purifying, especially water. The Persian religion conceives two deities-a god of light and goodness and a god of darkness and evil. The struggle between these two gods fills the universe and makes all existence a contest. The art of the Persian portrays this struggle, and does not let pure human individuality step forth for itself.

In Assyria and Chaldea we have the worship of the sun rather than of pure light. Hence there were artificial hills or towers constructed, with ascending inclined planes on the outside

rising to the flat top, crowned with a temple dedicated to Belus or the Sun god. Images partly human, partly animal, represented the divine. The lion, the eagle, the quadruped and bird, the human face, these were united to make the symbol of a divine being who could not be manifested in a purely human form.

The Egyptian religion, though it surpassed the Persian in that it conceived the divine as much more near human life, still resorted to animal forms to obtain the peculiarly divine attributes. There were the sacred bulls Apis and Mnevis, the goat of Mendes, sacred hawks and ibis, and such divinities as Isis-Hathor, with a cow's head; Touaris, with a crocodile's head; Thoth, with the head of an ibis; Horus, with the head of a hawk; but Ammon and Ptha and Osiris with human heads and bodies. Thus we see that the Egyptian wavered between the purely human and the animal form as the image of the divine. So long as it is possible for a religion to permit the representation of the divine by an animal form, that religion has not yet conceived God as pure self-consciousness or reason. Its art can not arrive at gracefulness. As a consequence of this defect, however, it can not account for the origin and destiny of the world in such a way as to explain the problem of the human soul. It is an insoluble enigma whose type is a sphinx. The Sphinx is the rude rock out of which it arises, symbolizing inorganic nature; then the lion's body, typifying by the king of beasts the highest of organic beings below man; then the human face, looking up inquiringly to the heavens. Its question seems to be: "Thus far: what next?" Does the human break the continuity of the circle of nature within which there goes on a perpetual revolution of birth, growth, and decay, or does the human perish with the animal and plant and lose his individuality? How can his individuality be preserved without the body? The Egyptian's highest thought was this enigma. He combined the affirmative and nega‐ tive elements of this problem, conceiving that man survives death but will have a resurrection and need his particular body again, which therefore must be preserved by embalming it. The body of Osiris had to be embalmed by Isis. The sacred animals, bulls and others, were embalmed upon death.

They had not learned that the image of God is man, and, more definitely, man's reason or self-consciousness. It was a great step beyond the heathen religion of Asia and Africa therefore for the Greek religion to conceive the divine as dwelling in human form, however defective it was in respect to its doctrine of the particular attributes of man that are the true image of God. Hence we have the explanation why it is that Greek art has become the conventional expression of the beautiful for all the civilized world. It alone aims at the expression of personal freedom in the body and therefore always achieves gracefulness. Christian art as such strives to show the soul as struggling to free itself from the body. All cultivated peoples will prefer ornament and works of art that show the triumph of the soul over matter to the manifestation of the predominance of matter or the struggle of the soul to free itself. Art studies should therefore find their center in the history of Greek art.

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III. THE INTELLECTUAL VALUE OF TOOL WORK." Man, like the animal, has natural wants, which he must gratify in order to live on the earth. While the animal needs food, and to some extent shelter, man needs food and shelter and clothing. In order to get possession of these things he must struggle for them and wrest them from nature, depriving plants and animals of their vital principles and converting them to his own uses. Whereas the plant feeds upon soil and atmosphere in so far as it finds them in immediate contact with itself, and the animal is able to seek a new environment and use its limbs as tools or instruments with which to seize upon the means of supplying its wants, man on the other hand, although less endowed with strength

a A paper read by W. T. Harris before the National Educational Association, in Nashville, Tenn., July 15, 1889.

than many of the animals, and with scanty natural provision for clothing, yet is able to surpass the animal in gratification of his wants, by cunningly aiding his natural forces and instruments by invented ones. He devises instruments out of natural materials, mineral, animal, and vegetable substances and their chemic elements, of such efficiency as to enable him to command the resources of land and sea and air.

Whatever seems at first a limitation to him, or a hostile might threatening him with destruction, or imposing upon him the necessity of drudgery for daily assistance, becomes by and by an auxiliary power friendly to man after he has conquered it by the magic of his intellect.

Man, as inventor of tools and machines and the combiner of nature's forces, presents for us the most interesting object in the universe. Let us take a survey of him as the maker of tools and the wielder of them. Intellectual and moral power unite to give man this power of invention. It is intellectual cunning which discovers the powers and adaptations of things and converts them to his uses. It is the moral power of self-conquest that enables man to sacrifice the ease and comfort of the present moment and to endure privation, in order by industry and patient attention to accumulate a capital of physical means and acquired experience sufficient to produce an invention.

The first step above the brute instinct begins when man looks beyond things as he sees them existing before him and commences to consider their possibilities; he begins to add to his external seeing an internal seeing; the world begins to assume a new aspect; each object appears to be of larger scope than its present existence, for there is a sphere of possibility environing it, a sphere which the sharpest animal eyes of lynx or eagle can not see, but which man, endowed with this new faculty of inward sight, perceives at once. To this insight into possibilities there loom up uses and adaptations, transformations and combinations in a long series stretching into the infinite behind each finite real thing. The bodily eyes see the real objects, but can not see the infinite trails; they are invisible except to the inward eyes of the mind.

What we call directive power on the part of man, his combining and organizing power, all rests on this power to see beyond the real things before the senses to the ideal possibilities invisible to the brute. The more clearly man sees these ideals the more perfectly he can construct for himself another set of conditions than those in which he finds himself. Men as tool workers, as managers of machines, participate in this higher kind of perception in different degrees, but all have it to some extent. The lowest human laborer has the dimmest notions of these ideals; they are furnished him by others; he is told what to do; he furnishes the hands to work with and someone else furnishes the brains or most of the brain work. Unless a directing mind is near by to help at every moment with the details of some ideal, the rude laborer ceases his work, having no knowledge of what is required next. His capacity to grasp an ideal is very small; he can only take it in tiny fragments-small patterns dealt out to him as a hand by the directing brain of the overseer or "boss."

It seems a waste of power to have two brains to govern one pair of hands. It is evidently desirable to have each laborer developed in his brain, so as to be able to see ideals as well as to realize them by his hands.

The development of this desirable power we call education of the intellect, and its chief means is science. Science is the systematized results of observation. Each fact in the world is placed in the light of all the other facts. All facts are made to help explain each fact. This is science. Now, each fact represents only one of the many possible states of existence which a thing may have. When one state of existence is real the others are mere possibilities, or, as they are called, "potentialities." Thus water may exist as liquid, or vapor, or ice, but when it is ice the liquid and vapor states are mere potentialities.

Science collects about each subject all its phases of existence under different conditions; it teaches the student to look at a thing as a whole and see in it not only what is visible before his senses, but what also is not realized and remains dormant or potential. The

scientifically educated laborer, therefore, is of a higher type than the mere "hand laborer," because he has learned to see in each thing its possibilities. He sees each thing in the perspective of its history. Here, then, in the educated laborer we have a hand belonging to a brain that directs, or that can intelligently comprehend a detailed statement of an ideal to be worked out. The laborer and the "boss" are united in one man.

There are, as we have said, different degrees of educated capacity, due to the degree in which this power of seeing invisible potentialities or ideals is developed. The lowest humanity needs constant direction and works only under the eye of an overseer; it can work with advantage only at simple processes; by repetition it acquires skill at a simple manipulation. The incessant repetition of one muscular act deadens into habit and less and less brain work goes to its performance. When a process is reduced to simple steps, however, it is easy to invent some sort of machine that can perform it as well or better than the human drudge. Accordingly, division of labor gives occasion to labor-saving machinery. The human drudge can not compete with the machine and is thrown out of employment and goes to the almshouse or perhaps starves. If he could only be educated and learn to sec ideals, he could have a place as manager of the machine. The machine requires an alert intellect to direct and control it, but a mere "hand" can not serve its purpose. The higher development of man produced by science therefore acts as a goad to spur on the lower orders of humanity to become educated intellectually. Moreover, the education in science enables the laborer to easily acquire an insight into the construction and management of machines. This makes it possible for him to change his vocation readily. There is a greater and greater resemblance of each process of human labor to every other now that an age of machinery has arrived. The differences of manipulation are grown less, because the machine is assuming the handwork and leaving only the brain work for the laborer. Hence there opens before labor a great prospect of freedom in the future. Each person can choose a new vocation and succeed in it without long and tedious apprenticeship, provided that he is educated in general science.

If he understands only the theory of one machine, he may direct or manage any form or style of it. He could not so easily learn an entirely different machine unless he had learned the entire theory of machinery. The wider his knowledge and the more general its character, the larger the sphere of his freedom and power. If he knows the scientific theory of nature's forces, he comprehends readily not only the machines, but also all nature's phenomena as manifestations of those forces. Knowledge is educative in proportion to its enlightening power or its general applicability. The knowledge of an art is educative because it gives one command in a sphere of activity; it explains effects and enables the artisan to be both brain and hand to some extent. A science lifts him to a much higher plane educatively, because he can see a wide margin of possibilities or ideals outside of the processes in use, and outside of the tools and machines employed.

Education, then, takes these three steps: First, to do what is directed by authority; secondly, to know the theory of the art or trade as it is and has come down by tradition; thirdly, to know the general science of the subject, and comprehend not only the processes that have been realized, but the possibility of others.

The civilization in which we live is well characterized as a scientific one, and it is making great strides toward the conquest of nature. It demands, too, as we see, an education for all people. There is less and less place left for the mere drudge--all hands and no brains. Machinery can do his work so cheaply that his wages must be very slender. The education demanded, moreover, is not the training in technical skill so much as in science. For the more general training emancipates the laborer from the deadening effects of repetition and habit, the monotony of attending the machine, and opens up a vista of new invention and more useful combinations.

While the student is learning a method of doing something his brain is exercised; when the process has become a habit, it is committed to his hand, and his intellect is not required again except for new combinations. This is true of all machine work, of all tool work. Its theory

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